Free I Kill by Giorgio Faletti

There is a radio scanner to hear programmes on all frequencies, including the police radio. The man likes to listen to voices in the air. They fly from one spot to another in space and
belong to people without faces or bodies. They feed his imagination and give him the freedom to fantasize; the voices on tape communicate with the voice in his head.
    The man picks up the watertight box from the floor where he kept it. There is a wooden table resting on two trestles, which runs against the metal wall. The man sets the box on it. He sits down
on a swivel chair that allows him to reach the wall opposite the sound equipment with a simple movement. He turns on a table lamp. The glow penetrates the cold brilliance of the neon hanging from
the ceiling.
    The man feels the growing beat of excitement flood through him as he releases the clasps on the box one by one. The night had not been spent in vain. The man smiles. In the outside world, on a
day no different from any other, men were looking for him. Other voices were in the air, flying at each other in a futile chase. Bloodhounds with glass eyes unable to see beyond their own
reflection or what was staring them in the face.
    In the peace of the shadows, his house is once again a home. Meaning has returned; the sound of his own footsteps, his own reflection. His smile broadens, his eyes shine. In the absolute
silence, only his mind perceives the solemnity of the moment as he slowly opens the lid of the box.
    In the small space of his secret hiding place, the man inhales the odours of blood and sea that permeate the air. A knot of anguish tightens his stomach. The triumphant beating of his heart
suddenly becomes a death knell. He jumps up, thrusts his hands in the box, and with delicate care extracts what is left of the face of Jochen Welder, dripping with blood and salt water. The seal on
the box did not hold and water has seeped into the container. He inspects the damage, turning the face in his hands. The skin is rough and spotted with white where it came in contact with the salt.
The lifeless hair is damp and tousled.
    The man drops his trophy into the box as if it suddenly disgusts him. He slumps into the chair and holds his head in his bloodied, salty hands. Unwittingly, he runs his hands through his hair
while drooping his head under the weight of defeat. No use.
    The man feels a panting rage rise within him, like a storm coming from far away. The rustle of wind through tall grass, the sky darkening, the first thunderclap. His fury explodes. He jumps up,
grabs the container, raises it over his head, and hurls it against the metal wall. It resounds like a tuning fork set to the pitch of death that the man feels inside him. The box bounces and lands
in the middle of the room. The lid is half off from the force of the throw. The sorry remains of Jochen Welder and Arianna Parker slide out on to the floor. The man looks at them with contempt, so
much spilled garbage on the ground.
    The moment of rage is brief. His breath slowly returns to normal. His heart calms down. His arms relax by his sides. His eyes once again become those of a priest who listens in silence to voices
that only he can hear. There will be another night. And many more nights to come. And a thousand faces of men whose smiles will be snuffed out like a candle inside a hollow
jack-o’-lantern.
    He sits down and rolls across towards the sound equipment. Cases packed with records and CDs line the walls. He rummages through them, selecting a CD and slotting it angrily into the player. The
sound of strings pours forth from the speakers. It is melancholy, like a cool autumn breeze blowing crumpled leaves in a soft, swirling dance.
    The man relaxes against the back of his chair. He smiles again. His failure is already forgotten, dissolved by the sweetness of the music. There will be another night. And many more nights to
come. Suddenly a voice is heard, as alluring as the music that swirls through the